Blood in My Stool

This Isn’t Therapy—It’s the Shit I Lived Through

Most podcasts want to fix you. Not this one. Blood in My Stool isn’t some motivational echo chamber wrapped in a neat little recovery arc. It’s raw, unfiltered, and unforgiving—like the pain that doesn’t heal just because someone told you it’s time to move on. These are stories from the trenches, born from the kind of life you don’t put on a résumé.

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Blood In My Stool
Blood In My Stool
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About the show

This isn’t a podcast for the hopeful, the optimistic, or the well-adjusted. If you’re looking for life hacks, feel-good stories, or seven easy steps to anything, you can get the hell out right now.

This show is an autopsy. It’s a late-night conversation at the end of a dirty bar, when all the liars and lovers have gone home, and all that’s left is the truth, swimming at the bottom of a glass of cheap whiskey.

Hosted by Jack Riley, a man who’s seen the bottom of too many bottles, and Gloria St. James, a woman who’s heard too many of the lies that got them there, we talk about the things you’re only supposed to think about in the dark. We talk about the death of the American Dream, the beautiful myth of family, the brutal math of divorce, and the grim, hilarious business of trying to survive in a world that’s mostly designed to break you.

We don’t offer solutions here. We don’t sell salvation. We just pour a stiff drink, look the ugly truth right in its goddamn eye, and describe what we see.

Because someone has to tell the stories that don’t have a happy ending. Because life is a goddamn circus, and sometimes, all a man can do is sit back and describe the clowns. If you’re tired of the bullshit and your own ghosts are getting too loud, pull up a chair. You’re in the right place.

Meet the Hosts

Gloria St. James

She’s the one who pours the drinks, and she’s heard every goddamn line a man can spin because she used to believe a few of them. Her voice isn’t pretty; it’s got a smoker’s rasp and a sharp, cynical edge that cuts through the bullshit like a straight razor. She’s been the other woman, the one who got left, and the one who did the leaving. She’s the necessary, bitter truth to Jack’s philosophical despair. When he gets lost in the poetry of the gutter, she’s the one who kicks him in the shin and reminds him it still stinks of piss. She’s seen the “great men” with their pants around their ankles, and she’s not impressed. She’s the house odds, and she knows the house always wins

Jack Riley

He’s the guy at the end of the bar, the one who’s been there since noon and looks like he was born on that stool. His voice is a low rumble, a gravel road soaked in cheap whiskey. He used to be a lot of things—a salesman, a husband, a believer—but now he’s just a coroner for other people’s bad decisions. He doesn’t interview guests; he performs autopsies on their stories, looking for the exact moment where the rot set in. He’s got a laugh that sounds like a slow-motion car crash, and he asks the kind of questions that make you taste blood. He’s not looking for answers; he just wants to make sure everyone sees how ugly the questions really are.

Blood In My Stool 

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